


Sparknotes & Therapy

by MurphyAT



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Books, College, Dreams, Dreamwalking, Ethics, Freedom, Gen, M/M, Philosophy, chinese take-out, darcy is not qualified, darcy is sassy, loki asks questions, loki is in darcy's head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-24 06:26:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/631426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurphyAT/pseuds/MurphyAT
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Darcy has a tacky dreamscape, Loki questions ethics, and Darcy is NOT QUALIFIED. <br/>She has the freaking God of Mischief in her brain-space, and shouldn't gods be better at interior decorating? Darcy wouldn't know. All Darcy knows is that Loki is dangerous and she will never eat shady Chinese take-out again. <br/>And that she maybe doesn't hate Loki featuring in her dreams as much as she really should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparknotes & Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t ventured out of the Potter fandom in quite a while…but this little snippet came at me in the night like a frat hazing ritual—suddenly, violently, and with no escape in sight. At least there wasn’t shaving cream? Anywho, I’ve always thought Darcy is smarter than she sounds, and she’s wonderfully sassy, so…this. Good song for this: “Never Quite Free” by the Mountain Goats.

He stalked towards me with the preternatural grace of a born hunter, the feline creature he kept too little inside still seething beneath the surface of his careless charade. He stalked, yes, but not the confident strides of one who has decided upon its prey— whatever this Loki was, a product of my tendency towards masochism or one too many boxes of Chinese take-out before bed, he was not here to kill…not just yet. 

Instead he meandered, eyes lazy and fingers brushing the edges of my dreamscape, lingering on the spines of leather books, the feather-light touch of the merely curious. His touch paused on an abused copy of _Common Sense_. Tapped once. Canted his head, as a cat might.

Don’t ask me why my dreamscape appeared to be the love child of the Smithsonian and Rapunzel’s stupid tower. Blame it on my tortured upbringing and that librarian fetish Mom always denied having. Whatever, Mom. 

“Freedom,” Loki murmured, “such a contrary concept. I never understood the humans’ fascination with it. Nor their insistence to name that which does not exist.”

He didn’t look up. For the first time, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t my dream—if I was the creep probing his sleeping thoughts, invading his dreams.  
It would explain the weird-ass painting of a eight-legged horse. And the frightening amount of green. Sheesh. Tacky, much? You’d think a demigod would be better at interior decorating his brain-space.  


Things just ain’t like they used to be. No respect for a balanced color palette these days.  


I laughed at that—from what Hunky Golden God says, Loki has never been about ‘balance’. I don’t doubt it; sexy he may be, but that is a bag of crazy even I wouldn’t touch.

Speaking of unbalanced gods… “And what is it that so amuses you, little human?”

Crap. There’s that theory trashed. Now I have to think of something clever to say. “What is a Norse trickster god doing reading freaking Common Sense? Even I sparknoted it, and my major is political science.”

Loki furrowed his brow, clearly trying to sift through my diminutive Earthling-speak for some semblance of meaning. He’s cunning, sure, but culture shock is culture shock. “Not ‘a trickster god’. The trickster god.”

I snorted. He may be able to kill me eighty different ways in his sleep (or mine. Yikes. Food for thought.), but he’s still just a guy. Males and their silly ego-trips. Pssh.  
He continued, trailing his hand along the books—and honestly, weirdo. You don’t stroke books—“Am I to take this as complicit agreement with my previous statement?”

And it’s …weird. The way he said it, like he’s actually, despite himself, curious. “That freedom doesn’t exist? No. That’s stupid.”

“On the contrary. It is logical. To live is to be subjugated by life, till death frees you from existence. Freedom has no place in the lives of mortal men.”

“Okay, dude, first: you must have had one hell of a childhood. Like, maybe even worse than mine.”

He seemed amused by this. I kept talking, encouraged that he hadn’t killed me yet. “And second: you’re looking at it all wrong. Bird’s eye perspective—you see the big picture, but it’s upside down and you can’t make out all the super important little things that make the picture not suck. So your whole thing is that all of us are just down here taking the blows that come to us, trying to keep our heads above water, et cetera, clichés and sundry. Till we die and don’t have to deal with anything anymore, being dead and all. Right?”

“…though grossly oversimplified, I suppose that would not be inaccurate.”

Oh, please. Spare me the condescending academic schtick. I get enough of it from my profs. Commence eye roll.

“The whole idea of freedom, though, is that life doesn’t just happen to us. We happen to life, too. We can act, and react. We can change things, and if we can’t, then we can change how we see them, and that’s almost the same thing.”

Loki did not say anything for several minutes. I felt my lifeline dwindling by the second. I was still unsure whether Dream-Loki was real, and if he was, whether killing me here would really kill me, and if I would never wake up. And then no one would find me for days and days and the police would come only after wild dogs had eaten all my good bits. Yeah. Really feeling the masochism right now, thanks, subconscious. You jerkface. When he finally spoke, I started violently. 

“I had not thought of it in quite that manner.”

It suddenly occurred to me, in the rush of euphoria that came with not dying, that Loki had probably never discussed these ideas with anyone before. It made me a little sad. And terrified, because I am not qualified to speak about these things oh my God. Like, seriously. I got a C in Theory of Ethics, and I’m pretty sure that’s just because the prof was my mom’s sorority sister or something.

“Well, duh. You wouldn’t.”

Loki’s eyebrows flew up, and then down, eyes glittering, and I suddenly recalled my very strong desire to live. Yeah. My not-dying policy is like, the foundation of my entire platform.

Gulp. “You wouldn’t think of that, because it’d get in the way. Your perspective isn’t logical, it’s _convenient_. If freedom doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t matter what you take from us. If death frees us, you’re doing us a favor. So you can do all of these terrible things to us, and you don’t have to feel guilty—”  
O-ho. He took exception to that, drawing himself up to beam hatred at me from a decent height. “I do not feel guilty and my logic is perfectly sound. If your pathetic human mind is too small to—”

I waved my hand impatiently, for once invested in my own opinion. “Shhh. I wasn’t done. Of course you feel guilt. You just bury it under a crap load of anger and bitterness and –really, it can’t be healthy. Have you tried therapy?”

I had the very great satisfaction of rendering Loki speechless. He stood, still in hatred-beam position, but eyes wide, back tense, hands loose, jaw clenched. It was an odd sight—was he angry? Going to horribly maim me? Or…surprised, shocked, upset? I didn’t know. But there was something vulnerable in those wide eyes, something laid bare. And it was delicious.

Screw living. This was much more fun.  
“I hear the going rate is a hundred bucks a sesh, but since you’re clearly a popular guy, I’m sure they’ll make an exception. You know. For the guy who tried to enslave them.”

Go ahead. Poke the possibly-furious, definitely-crazy, not-so-sleepy bear, Darcy. Great idea. With every heartbeat of silence, came a disturbingly familiar mantra: I am so going to die. I am so going to die. I am so going to die.  
And then—it got weirder. Loki didn't go stab-crazy. I did not die. No. Loki was amused. Loki was... laughing! Hearty, normal, honest-to-Jesus chuckles were emerging from a mouth made for insane cackling. 

This whole dream was so disturbing.

“Ah, little human, you have spirit to match your race’s stupidity! Were you a foot taller and could wield a broadsword half your length, you might remind me of a friend I had, in Asgard. Sif would have argued as you have.”

Ouch. Back-handed compliments suck. I looked up at him levelly (when had he moved? He was less than two feet away, and seemed taller for it.). “The little human’s name is Darcy. If you’re going to creep in my brain-space, you should probably remember that.”  
Loki merely chuckled again, unmoved.

The freaking trickster god. In my brain. At night. Chuckling.

Dude. I am never eating Mushu Pork before bed again.  
Like, _seriously_.

**Author's Note:**

> Might take this further if there’s interest. If you’d like more, I have a few ideas, so let me know, yes, my lovelies?


End file.
